


oh, this sleepy little town

by everythingyouever



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Byleth Grows Up At Garreg Mach, Female My Unit | Byleth, Fluff and Angst, Fluff to Angst more like, Multi, Tags May Change, gremlin!byleth, long fic, no beta we die like Glenn, pairings in future, tired!seteth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2020-12-21 09:09:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21072425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everythingyouever/pseuds/everythingyouever
Summary: oh, this sleepy little townnearly ashes on the ground-When she was very young, Byleth couldn’t remember anywhere but Garreg Mach. She’d heard stories of snowy Fhirdiad, of the waters surrounding Derdriu that brought invading Almyrans and pirates, of the old yet imposing city of Enbarr. But those were words on pages. When Byleth pictured snow, she remembered the hymns they all sang in winter, praying to the Goddess for the sun’s return. When she pictured the ocean, all she saw were the sea of trees over-washing the Oghma Mountains. And when she pictured a great and sprawling city, she thought of the monastery’s sky-reaching walls and structures, unable to ever be destroyed with their stone strength. A world outside of Garreg Mach seemed impossible to exist—and unthinkable to imagine that she would ever leave it.





	1. wherein we meet byleth

**Author's Note:**

> title from road's cover of ViVi  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pi7d3qDqmrQ
> 
> so...yeah, i don't really have an excuse for this. i just really wanted gremlin!byleth driving seteth up the walls as he tries to parent this wild child, and then it spun out of control.  
this'll start out pretty fluffy, and then take a turn down angst road, bc fire emblem, y'know??  
there'll probably also be future pairings, but not rn, bc byleth is a kiddo

PART I

1.

i. in which byleth is a half-orphan

When she was very young, Byleth couldn’t remember anywhere but Garreg Mach. She’d heard stories of snowy Fhirdiad, of the waters surrounding Derdriu that brought invading Almyrans and pirates, of the old yet imposing city of Enbarr. But those were words on pages. When Byleth pictured snow, she remembered the hymns they all sang in winter, praying to the Goddess for the sun’s return. When she pictured the ocean, all she saw were the sea of trees over-washing the Oghma Mountains. And when she pictured a great and sprawling city, she thought of the monastery’s sky-reaching walls and structures, unable to ever be destroyed with their stone strength. A world outside of Garreg Mach seemed impossible to exist—and unthinkable to imagine that she would ever leave it.

Such were a child’s thoughts.

Just as Byleth could always remember Garreg Mach, there were certain people there she couldn’t remember not knowing. 

Her father, of course. Matron Liara, in charge of all the orphans at the monastery (and briefly Byleth). Tomas, the kindly old librarian who taught her to read. Rhea.

And Seteth. Supposedly, there was a time when Seteth didn’t live at the monastery. Matron Liara said that she’d looked after Byleth since she was a babe and even a toddling young one. The nun told her Seteth arrived when she was around four or five. But Byleth didn’t really believe it. That leaf-green hair and perpetual frown had been a permanent fixture of her childhood.

The problem was that while Byleth never left, her father often did. As captain of the famed Knights of Seiros, Jeralt constantly left, and came back, and left again. It was a pain.

When Jeralt _ was _ around, she followed him like a puppy, coming to the training yard to watch the knights and students go through their paces, or napping on the couch in his office while he did paperwork. They took their meals together and she’d sleep in his room at night, curled against his chest. No one said anything to the Blade Breaker’s face about the blue-haired monkey clinging around his shoulders and neck, but amusement always shone in their eyes.

“I just wish she was so well-behaved after you leave,” Seteth always bemoaned. 

Hidden behind the safe mass of her father, Byleth stuck out her tongue in response.

But Father had to leave, eventually. And then the troubles would begin. 

Byleth was given a small room of her own, but she rarely slept in it. Instead, she used it to stash away treasures—but she had to be careful where she hid them, lest Seteth spot something and go on a confiscation spree. Byleth got really good at pulling up floorboards.

Instead, she liked sleeping with the other orphans. They’d drag mats together and huddle up in piles (warmth was important, especially in the colder months). 

Seteth never understood why she did it. “You’re lucky enough to have a perfectly good bed, all to yourself, and here you are, wasting it.”

But Byleth could never get warm in her bed when she was by herself, no matter how many blankets she piled on. She’d pick snores, bad breath, and an arm haphazardly thrown over her chest any day over a chill, silent room.

Her sleeping arrangements was only one of the many battles fought with Seteth. The skirmish over her clothes was another fierce fight. For a long time, Matron Liara and Seteth tried to give her dresses and skirts, white lacy things you’d see on dolls or little noble girls visiting with their families.

Byleth was neither a doll, nor a little noble girl, and she was not amused by these attempts. Skirts and dresses were bad for climbing and fighting, and anything white she wore got filthy within an hour. She’d ignore the things set out on her bed (or chuck them out the window if she was in a particularly black mood), and barter one of the other children for a cotton shirt and trousers. 

Matron Liara was the first to give up. “If she wants to be a hellion, let her be a hellion,” she said, no longer caring if Byleth was grime-faced and indistinguishable from the other orphans. 

Seteth persisted for quite a while longer. He was a stubborn fellow. 

The only successes he ever won on that front were the days that Byleth took tea with the Archbishop. Matron Liara would wrestle her by the neck into a bath, scrubbing down her face and neck, and yanking out the knots in her hair. Byleth never minded the tea itself with Lady Rhea, but the preparations beforehand were a horror. 

“You know,” Seteth said to her once, “no matter how you act it, you _ are _different from those other children.”

“Only a little,” Byleth replied. “I’m half an orphan, and Father’s never here, so it _ practically _counts.”

She knew her mother was dead; Jeralt took her to the grave every year and had her lay flowers down. And not all the other urchins in their pack were proper orphans, either. Some had parents in the village that didn’t have the time to mind them or couldn’t be bothered to. The priests and nuns of the monastery looked after them, all the same. 

Byleth was about to raise this point, when Seteth said, “You _ are _different. I think you even know it.”

“I don’t. I _ don’t.” _ Byleth insisted.

But she did know. No matter how _ common _ her blood (as the Officer’s Academy students often sneered), Byleth knew that not every child had a father who captained the knights, or a minder who was the Archbishop’s personal assistant. And certainly, no other child took tea with Lady Rhea twice in a week. 

Byleth knew, but she didn’t want to know.

_ Sometimes, she remembered a memory so faded yet frightening she was convinced it was a bad dream. Her father wasn’t there, but Seteth and Lady Rhea and someone else was. They were arguing, Seteth and Lady Rhea, which was so strange. The stranger held her hand over a purple, glowing device. A symbol popped up, unrecognizable, but Seteth gasped. Then, he shouted at Lady Rhea, very angrily. This was how Byleth knew it was a dream, because Seteth would never, ever do such a thing. The stranger dragged her away as Seteth continued to rage, back to her dark room and her freezing, lonely bed. _

_ She held her knees to her chest and stayed awake until dawn. But she didn’t cry. _

Byleth has never cried.

ii. in which byleth gets a job

Matron Liara kept the children’s days in a certain routine. _ This much time to eat. This much time to do chores. And this much time to go out and be the brats you are. _In the mornings, when the Officer’s Academy students were busy with their lessons, Matron Liara shepherded them into the library and Tomas would teach them to read. Most of the others thought it boring stuff, but Byleth liked it alright. By the time she was seven, she was sneaking into the library to read books on her own.

A lot of it was _ the Goddess this, _ or _ the Saints that, _ but there were some interesting books in there. Books about wars, and knights, lands that Byleth couldn’t really picture but loved to imagine.

Despite her light step, Tomas quickly caught on to the little mouse pilfering his books. But he didn’t scold her, only teased her a little, and toddled off to find more books he thought she’d like. 

Byleth liked Tomas, and she liked the library. She designated it as one of the three havens of Garreg Mach that she could flee to, if she was having a spat with either Seteth or the other kids. 

Her father’s room was the second. Sometimes, if she was upset or wanted to be alone, she wouldn’t go to her room (because everyone could find her there). Instead, she’d slip into her father’s room, because even if he was gone for months, the sheets and pillows still smelled a bit like him, and she could crawl in and pretend he was right there with her. The pretending wasn’t the best, but it was the best she had. 

The third, surprisingly, was the monastery's aerie. Matron Liara often handed the children off to the stable keeps to help with chores and duties. Mostly, they were mucking out stalls or fetching water pails to fill troughs. The good-behaved children got to help groom the pegasi and pet them. (Byleth was rarely allowed this privilege.)

But the wyverns were totally off limits. Matron Liara banned them completely, certain someone would end up losing a limb if they weren’t careful. The children weren’t to go near them at all.

It was Samuel who first brought it up, so it should really be Samuel’s fault for the whole thing. 

The children of Garreg Mach were gathered up that day, enjoying the reprieve of Matron Liara’s watchful eye, which of course turned into a game of dare. Samuel and Charla, the group’s vying leaders, were being themselves (in other words, trying to constantly one-up the other) when Sam finished his appointed dare of sneaking a meat pie out of the kitchen and sharing the spoils. His success was enjoyed by everyone (except Byleth) and as he licked pie crumbs off his fingers, he declared, “I dare you to touch a wyvern.”

Charla went white, then red. “You touch a bloody wyvern! I’m keeping my hand!”

Sam, who had absolutely zero intention of doing that, snorted. “Ha, knew you were chicken after all.”

The others started jeering. Byleth, at a distance from the rest, picked at her nails, uncaring.

Charla turned white once more, then swallowed. “Fine. I’ll do it—and _ you _won’t—so we’ll see who the real coward is!”

The jeering turned to hooting, and in mob fashion the children surrounded Charla, sweeping her off to the stables, with Sam grinning all the way. After a moment, Byleth decided to follow; she liked wyverns and if someone was about to have their arm ripped off by one, she wanted to see.

The trick would be _ getting _ to the wyverns, since the stablehands were quick to shoo them off like cats. Today, though, they were lucky. The steps up to the aerie were all clear, and the brat pack only had to sneak past one man who was napping with his feet up, a cap over his eyes.

Yet, once they got to the stalls, most decided to hang back at the sight of the giant, predatory animals that watched them with serpent-slitted eyes.

“Well?” Sam hissed (conveniently standing in the back). “Go on!”

Charla took a hesitant step forward towards the closest wyvern’s stall, shaky hand outstretched. Said wyvern took one look at the terrified girl and let out an annoyed hiss.

Charla, who wasn’t _ completely _ devoid of any and all survival instincts, shook her head, backing up. “No way. Call me chicken all you want.”

Sam immediately did just that, squawking and flapping out his arms. But at his fourth “bawk”, Byleth suddenly said, “I’ll do it.”

Everyone looked at her; most of them had probably forgotten she was even there. Byleth wasn’t really sure why she even said it, but there was no taking it back. She walked forward with her back straight. No squawking for her. 

“Goddess, she’s not really doing it, is she?”

“I can’t watch…”

But here’s the thing. Byleth liked wyverns, which meant she liked watching people handle them. You had to be strong, and firm, and not show fear.

Byleth could do that. Strong, firm, no fear. You’re a blank slate.

She didn’t walk towards the same wyvern Charla had; that one was all keyed up and ready to react. Byleth looked carefully for a wyvern unaffected by the smell of nervous, jittery children intruding on their dens. 

There. The old, quiet one with scarring across its snout.

She held out her hand, palm open, eyes locked with yellow ones. Byleth came closer slowly, watching for any sort of negative response, but it just stayed still. Watching her the same exact way.

Easy, now. Easy. Lightly, she grazed the brown-grey scales with her fingers, a corner of her mouth ticking up when the beast let out a low purr. 

“She did it!”

“Can you believe—”

“What are you brats doing?” a voice demanded.

Byleth froze; the rest scattered.

The only one left (traitors), she backed away front the wyvern which let out an unhappy huff at the ceasement of head scritches. Byleth recognized the adult before her as the master of the aerie. He was an older man, fifties or so, wearing a scar slashed across his nose along with a frown.

Uh-oh. For once, Byleth considered the consequences of her actions. Normally, she didn’t care much if adults tried to punish her, because Seteth was awful at handing them out and she could outrun Matron Liara when the older woman chased her around with a wooden spoon. But if this man ordered it, he could ban Byleth from watching the wyvern riders go through their flight routines. Uneasily, she waited with bated breath.

The master of the aerie tilted his head, appraising her. “Only one of your little cohorts left, are you?”

Cautiously, Byleth nodded her head.

“Like wyverns, do you?”

Byleth nodded her head more vigorously.

“Well,” he said, “I guess you can pick up their punishment, then.”

Her stomach dropped.

“Here,” and then he gestured to the bucket he was holding (full of juicy red meat slops), “then you can help me feed them.”

Any apprehension disappeared and Byleth’s eyes gleamed. 

She’d never seen anyone feeding wyverns before, but apparently you just threw strips of meat at them (from a nice distance) and watched as they caught and slurped them down. It was a bloody, smelly business, but Byleth thoroughly enjoyed it.

“That was some nice handling of Kiko, by the way,” the man said.

She chucked her piece of meat, then glanced over. “Who?”

“Kiko.” He pointed to the scarred one she’d petted. “He’s an old boy, but he’s got a good temperment. Even so, I’ve never seen him so relaxed with a stranger.”

Byleth glowed at the compliment. “I thought he looked calm.”

“It was still a stupid thing to do,” he said sternly. “Wyverns don’t usually react well to people that aren’t either their caretakers or their riders.”

Her gaze skirted away, back to the meat and the next hungry wyvern. 

“What’s your name?”

“Byleth.” If she said her last name, then he’d know who she was. But she let the lack of it and her common clothes do the rest of her talking. 

He nodded, probably reaching the conclusion she wanted. “I’m Cyrus.”

As time passed, Cyrus told her each of the wyverns’ names, how old they were, and what each of their personalities were like. Byleth listened with rapt attention. 

At the end of their work, he took her out to the fishing pond and they scrubbed their hands clean in the brackish water. 

“You’re not a bad worker,” Cyrus said, “Are you assigned work in the stables?”

“Sometimes,” Byleth answered, trying to dig the guck out under her nails.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll see about having you assigned over to the aerie. We need another good assistant there.”

Byleth preened. 

When she got back to the other kids, they demanded to know what had happened to her.

“Did he hit ya?” Sam.

“Did he try and feed you to a wyvern?” Charla.

“How’d you survive?”

"Is he gonna tell Matron Liara on us?"

She shrugged. “He had me feed the wyverns with him. Then he said I was good at it and that I could be an aerie assistant.”

A gasp.

“What?”

But Samuel had to go and ruin it like always. “Matron Liara’ll never let that happen. You’re Rhea’s _ golden girl,_” he sneered.

And Byleth realized this was absolutely true. In fact, when Matron Liara heard the day’s events, there’d probably be some spoon-chasing.

Ugh.

A week later, Byleth’s fears came to pass. She was flinging out manure from the stables when Cyrus appeared.

“Hello, Byleth,” he greeted. “Do you know where your minder is?”

Byleth pointed to Matron Liara, off in the shade with some religious text. 

He gestured for her to follow, and she put down her pitchfork, eyes darting nervously between the two adults. A few yards away, Sam spotted them and elbowed Charla, pointing and cackling.

Ass. 

Matron Liara looked from her book at their approach, eyes immediately narrowed. “Oh, dear. What’s the girl done now?”

“Nothing,” Cyrus lied, for which Byleth was very grateful, “I’m Cyrus, the master of the aerie.”

Matron Liara nodded, still obviously uncomprehending. “I see. Can I...do something for you?”

“I was wondering if you’ve planned a profession for her,” Cyrus said, nodding his head at Byleth. “I noticed she has a talent with wyverns, and the aerie always needs more hands.”

Matron Liara’s mouth fell open. It closed. Then reopened.

“Is there a problem with that?” Cyrus asked pleasantly.

“She’s—oh—Byleth isn’t like the other children here,” Matron Liara said. Byleth braced herself. “She’s Captain Jeralt’s daughter.”

And here it came. The change in treatment, the awkwardness, the apologies.

“So, you see,” the matron continued, “I’m sure the Archbishop has planned something higher in..._stature _ than a stablehand for her.”

A pause.

“I’m sure she’ll become a knight like her father, then,” Cyrus said, stunning Byleth. “Perhaps she’ll take to wyverns rather than horses.”

“W-well, perhaps,” Matron Liara stuttered.

“And if that is the case,” Cyrus continued without missing a beat, “you can never start too early with wyverns.” He winked at her.

And that was how Byleth wound up with regular shifts at the aerie by the age of eight. She worked more often than any of the other children did at the stables, but that was all right—they were all, including Samuel, utterly envious of her. Byleth was smug for weeks afterward.

iii. in which seteth learns the art of persuasion (and bribery)

The only worry Byleth had about her newly-acquired job was Seteth finding out, only to discover at one teatime that he _ always _ knew.

It was just the two of them; Seteth was sipping his tea while Byleth picked at a scone. He’d called this teatime with the specific purpose of cajoling her into a dress for the afternoon mass of Saint Serios Day, and so far, Byleth wasn’t budging.

“I don’t understand why _ I _have to go,” she repeatedly insisted.

“Because you are a faithful follower of Seiros, and it is your duty.”

“Why can’t I sit in the back with all the other kids, then? Nobody cares how they dress!”

Seteth was trying not to grit his teeth and failing. “The Archbishop would very much appreciate your presence at the mass. That also means being able to _ see _your presence.”

Which meant sitting up front with Seteth.

Byleth scowled. “I still don’t see why I should have to do this when nobody else does.”

“You are Captain Jeralt’s only child—”

“But he’s not even here! And I don’t think any other captain’s child got treated like this!”

“Byleth!”

“It’s the truth!” 

She knew that she was different, and it wasn’t even a normal different. Things didn’t add up. Byleth was the knight-captain’s daughter, yes, yet also still a plain old commoner—but the way Rhea talked about her sometimes, it was like she thought Byleth was going to change the world.

_ You’re special, _ Rhea insisted, but Byleth couldn’t see it.

It was a weight too heavy to see, and every time it pressed upon her, Byleth did her best to run from it.

Like now.

But Seteth wasn’t pressing anymore. He was just sitting back, eyeing her.

“Matron Liara tells me you’ve taken up working at the aerie,” Seteth said, switching subjects like a dealer shuffling out cards.

Byleth blinked at him; she hadn’t known _ he’d _ known that, and was wary that he did. “So? It’s not dangerous.”

That was probably a lie, but one Seteth didn’t acknowledge. “I’m not surprised you’ve a talent with wyverns.”

She blinked again. What did that even _ mean? _

“Did you know that I have my own wyvern in the aerie?” Seteth asked with a smile.

Byleth hadn’t, actually. She smelled a trap coming.

“Perhaps,” he continued with that same sly smile, “if you can cooperate with me on the matter of Seiros Day, I _ could _ take you up on Nylah for a ride.” 

It was most definitely a trap, but Byleth was a helpless mouse already reaching for the cheese. _ “Really?” _

“Yes, really,” Seteth huffed, but the smile remained. “Nylah is trained to ride smoothly through projectiles, fire bombs, and arrows; I think she can handle keeping a child in the saddle.”

“Oh,” Byleth said, eyes wide, “Well. As long as you _ do _ take me flying.”

That was how Byleth found herself in an itchy, stiff dress, trying not to kick her heels through a long and boring mass. But Seteth kept his word, and a few days later brought her along on Nylah.

The cold night air and the weightlessness in her gut more than made up for any prior discomfort. Stuffy old Seteth even flew a few loops and dives, as Byleth screeched in childish excitement _ and _ fright. But there was also a _ rightness _ to it that Byleth felt, a feeling that was as indescribable as it was oddly nostalgic.

(Years later, she’d think it was the first time she really felt alive.)

And so Byleth discovered a love for flying...and Seteth finally found himself a way to bribe his wayward ward into behaving.


	2. wherein byleth learns to fight and keep secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the gap between chapters! life got busy, but i'll try and have the next one out a lot sooner. and thank you so much for the comments and kudos!! ♡

2.

i. in which byleth learns to throw a punch

Byleth learned to fight from an early age, which probably isn’t all that surprising. What _ is _ surprising, however, was her initial tutor. 

Despite the common image of children being innocent little angels, it is a truth never acknowledged but universally known that kids can also be cruel terrors. Especially when it comes to someone different from themselves.

Byleth was different, and the other children all knew it._They _were stuck with their lot in life, waiting to be apprenticed out as smiths or clergymen or stableboys or kitchen maids. But Byleth, as Matron Liara loved to say, was destined for “greater things”.

That created a gap between her and them, and that gap stirred up resentment.

Maybe it would have been better if Byleth was charming or funny. But she wasn’t. Byleth was more than different; she was_ odd. _

When someone told a joke, Byleth didn’t laugh. She stared. Byleth hardly smiled, and when she did, it was a small quirk at the corner of her mouth instead of spreading her lips to show grinning teeth. When scuffed or scraped, no tears or snuffles escaped out of her. She just clutched the hem of her shirt and frowned.

“Unnatural,” some adults muttered.

Byleth heard, and she agreed. And so did the other children.

Last to be picked for games and always on the outskirts, Byleth was conscious of the fact that she was at the bottom of their pecking order. Most days she didn’t even really care.

And then there were the days the children of Garreg Mach played Saints and Heretics. 

This one was Seiros, and that one was Saint Cichol, and this one here got to be Elite Blaiddyd. But Byleth—

Byleth was always Nemesis.

She wouldn’t mind being Nemesis so much if they were being _ historically accurate _ about the whole thing. Nemesis and Seiros fought in single combat on the Tailtain Plains, and Seiros defeated him honorably, everyone knew that. And if Byleth was just fighting the other kid playing Seiros, she’d probably be able to wrestle them to the ground without much fuss. After all, she was small, but also scrappy and quick to dodge. 

But they didn’t do it one-on-one. Instead, a mob of Seiros and Saints and Elites all rushed and grabbed her, pinning limbs and sitting weight on her torso as they pressed her face to the dirt.

After said ‘play’, Byleth would limp back to Seteth, dirty, bruised, and unamused. Seteth, in turn, always had a complete fit, dragging her off the healers before Rhea even got the slightest glimpse of her. He’d then tell Matron Liara, in his angriest of tones, all about the incident, and she’d go and lecture the other children until their ears rang

But that just made them even madder at her—and so the cycle began again.

It seemed like things would go on forever like this, until Rhea finally caught sight of her sorry, sorry state.

Byleth was only trying to get to the saunas for a bath, when a sudden gasp stopped her in her tracks. She turned around to see the Archbishop with her entire entourage. Lady Rhea’s hand hovered over her mouth, eyes wide while Seteth’s expression approximated what he would look like if the monastery caught on fire and burned to cinders. 

She didn’t have to look down at herself to know she’s a mess. Byleth’s hair was dusty and dirtied to the point that you’d have a hard time believing her hair color was supposed to be blue and not brown. Her knees were scraped, and the corner of her mouth stung raw. 

“What has happened?” Lady Rhea demanded, rushing towards her immediately. 

The Archbishop’s hands cradled her face, a stream of healing already winding through her bruises and scratches, wiping them away. Lady Rhea’s magic didn’t feel like other healers, Byleth noted. It made her feel all..._ floaty. _

Seteth kept throwing her a combination of worried and frightened looks, but Byleth’s not stupid. She wasn’t going to say, “The orphans ganged up and beat me.”

So, instead, Byleth said, “I was just playing around. I guess I don’t play very well.”

“I see,” the Archbishop replied, almost coldly. Probably because she was seeing inside the lines of what Byleth didn’t tell her. 

“I’m all right,” Byleth added, because she was. She didn’t like playing Saints and Heretics, but ultimately didn’t want to get the rest of them in trouble, either. It’s not like it helped anything. “I just need a bath.”

She expected an argument, but Lady Rhea only smoothed Byleth’s hair back from her face and patted her cheeks. “Run along, then.”

Byleth didn’t miss the way she drew Seteth aside, murmuring to him. She wondered if there would even be any orphans left after the Archbishop was through with them. 

So, Byleth went on and had her bath, scrubbing her hair back to its proper shade. When she woke up in the morning and went down to the courtyard, everyone was still there. And they weren’t glaring at her while muttering, either, just yawning and chatting in groups. Weird. 

The copper penny dropped during an evening dinner with Seteth that night. 

“Tomorrow,” Seteth said, “you were scheduled to have tea with the Archbishop.”

Byleth nodded, poking at her potato chunks. “Two o’clock, sharp.”

Seteth coughed into his napkin. “Well, you’ll still be meeting her at that time, but it won’t be for tea.”

She looked up from the mush she was making of her dinner, curious.

“Lady Rhea has decided you ought to begin learning self-defense.”

Byleth perked up. She was, at that time, still eight years old, and children at the monastery didn’t begin weapons or combat training until they were at least ten. “She’s bringing me in a tutor?” 

“No,” Seteth shook his head, “You will be receiving the Archbishop’s personal attention.”

Byleth choked on her bite of potatoes. “Th—” cough, “The Archbishop?!”

“Throughout the years, many attempts have been made on Lady Rhea’s life. While the Knights of Seiros are the Archbishop’s first line of defense, she is far from a helpless maiden. I doubt there is another at Garreg Mach as skilled in hand-to-hand technique as her.”

Byleth raised her eyebrows. That was a large claim to make.

“Yes, yes, I can see you will not believe me without proof.” He waved a hand. “You’ll train in the Goddess Tower, as it’s the most private open space we currently have.” 

“We can’t do it in the training yard like everyone else?” Byleth thought it would be pretty entertaining for the Archbishop of the Church of Seiros to teach her how to knock someone’s teeth out with an audience.

Seteth said, with utmost finality, “No.”

Tomorrow came far too slowly. Byleth was permitted to wear her normal clothing (a point of high relief). That made her wonder if Lady Rhea _ wasn’t _ going to be wearing her big, shiny headdress. What did Archbishops even dress in when they weren’t being Archbishops?

Seteth took the liberty of walking her across the bridge to the tower.

Byleth eyed the Goddess Tower with some amount of trepidation; despite the students’ romantic rumors about the place, she’d always found it old and creepy looking. “Am I even allowed to be in here?”

Seteth gave her one of his usual Odd Looks. “You’re here with the Archbishop’s permission. Unlike the many students who sneak in after hours.” He muttered something very unflattering about the Academy’s student body that Byleth couldn’t quite catch.

Lady Rhea awaited them on one of the higher floors. She was wearing white, but her pale robes were far more simple than usual and clung to her body. The headdress was, indeed, gone. (Byleth thought that Lady Rhea looked a lot more like a person without all that extra shine and poof and glimmer.)

The Archbishop smiled when she saw them. “Thank you for delivering her to me, Seteth.”

He executed a simple bow, then turned on his heel and left. The sudden exit startled Byleth to the point that she wanted to reach out and tug Seteth back. But he was already gone.

“Hello, little one,” Lady Rhea said, her attention now fully fixed on Byleth.

Byleth mumbled back her own “hello.”

“Did Seteth tell you why I’ve decided on these lessons?”

Come to think, he hadn’t. She shook her head.

Lady Rhea’s smile softened. “I forget how quick you are to grow. Sometimes, it is hard to believe you are not still a babe in arms.” The smile slipped. “I forget how quick the world is to give you its dangers.”

Byleth frowned. “I’m not in danger.”

“But you are. More than you know.” Lady Rhea took her hand, squeezed it. “We are special, you and I, blessed by the Goddess. There is power in that. But there are those who are envious of such power, and would do anything to destroy it.”

“I-I don’t understand,” Byleth said, a bit helplessly. 

“You will,” the smile returned, a bit sadder than it was, “when you are older. For now, I can do nothing but prepare you.”

_ you are different _

Byleth swallowed down the confusion and fear and stashed it away into the place where things she ignores goes. This was only adults being silly again. That’s all. 

The training session went smoothly after that, even if it was a little more boring than Byleth anticipated. Lots of stances and posture-correction and holding your hands a certain way. Byleth didn’t get to punch a thing, that time.

But the sessions kept going, and they got harder and more complicated as they went on. By the end of the hour, Byleth was panting like a dog, which was a bit frustrating as there was hardly a hair out of place or a drop of sweat to be seen on the Archbishop. After a particularly grueling hour of training, Lady Rhea would sit down on one of the benches and Byleth would curl up beside her, closing her eyes as the older woman ran her fingers through her hair. This usually ended with Byleth taking a nice nap, as Rhea hummed a familiar yet unplaceable melody. 

Head in her lap, Byleth once asked Rhea, “When can I start with _ real _ weapons?”

The hand in her hair stilled. “Oh, not for some more years, I think.”

“Well, I want to train with lances,” Byleth yawned (and was glad Rhea wasn’t Seteth, because he’d scold her for it), “or maybe bows.”

“Why lances?”

Sleepily, Byleth shrugged, which was harder than you’d think while lying down. “Everyone says Father is the best lancer in the knights.”

“Hmm. Well, my child, _ I _do not think you will be the best lancer of my knights. I think you will be my best swordswoman.”

_ Huh? _ “Why swords?” 

“Because one day,” and Byleth could barely hear the words through her weariness and drooping eyes, “one day, you will receive a very special sword. A sword made and meant for you and only you, wielded by your hand alone.”

Byleth would think that sword sounded pretty nice, if she wasn’t already asleep.

Surprisingly, her training with Lady Rhea spilled into her daily life, especially when it came to playing Saints and Heretics. She couldn’t keep all her attackers back, not immediately, not all at once. But a foot curled around someone’s ankle brought them crashing down and a well-placed elbow knocked the breath out of somebody else’s lungs. Then, the day came when Nemesis was named, and his name didn’t start with ‘Byleth’. And Byleth got to be a stunned but happy Macuil. 

Children respect the oddest things. One of those things happens to be somebody that can knock them flat. 

ii. in which jeralt comes home

One of the most frequent questions Byleth asked Seteth was, “Where’s Father?”

The next most frequent was, “When’s he coming back?”

“Your father’s on a mission,” Seteth told her, which was what he normally said. “He’s eliminating another branch of the Western Church that’s turned heretical.”

Byleth wrinkled her nose at the last word. “So they’re evil?”

Seteth’s quill hesitated from continuing to flick across his reports. “They are apostates who have left the true path of the Goddess.”

“But how do you know they’ve left the true path?” Byleth persisted. “What if we’re the ones who are wrong?”

“That’s impossible,” Seteth said reflexively, “We are—the Goddess continues to bless us with signs of her favor even today.”

“Don’t they think that, too?” Byleth pointed out.

He scowled at her. “Isn’t it getting close to your bedtime?”

She quickly switched tacks. “So, _ when _ is Father coming home?”

“In a month. Perhaps more.”

But Seteth was wrong; it wasn’t a month, it was three days.

Byleth’s head jerked up when she heard trumpets. Trumpets randomly blaring meant only one thing: the knights had arrived. She and the other children abandoned their duty of weeding out the Academy’s lawn (despite Matron Liara’s annoyed shouting) to run and watch the formal procession of the Knights of Seiros returning home. The old tradition was that the knights would process into the monastery in single file, and the Captain would head up, alone, to deliver his report to the Archbishop.

Charla, Sam, and the rest were muttering to themselves in excitement, but Byleth wasn’t going to settle for just watching. She clawed her way up a tree ahead of the procession’s path and waited for it to arrive. 

Her father was at the head of the line, just as he always was, back straight and eyes focussed ahead as he led his horse up the way. Something in Byleth swelled at the sight of him, proud and happy and relieved all at once. Everyone called him the strongest knight who ever lived, and Byleth didn’t doubt it for a single second. He always came back. Always. 

Next in line was Alois, chattering animatedly and waving his hands this way and that. Typical Alois. 

At the moment she deemed exactly right, Byleth flung herself down from her branch, flying freely until solid arms caught her around the waist. 

“Hey, kid,” Jeralt said.

She gazed up at him placidly. “Hi, Da.”

Behind them, Alois squawked (_ Byleth, where did you come from!? _) but she ignored him and settled into a comfortable position on the saddle. Yards away, Byleth could make out Charla and Sam’s sour apple faces; she gave them the smallest and smuggest of smiles.

“And what have you been up to all this time?” her father asked, ruffling her hair.

“I’m working in the aerie, with the wyverns,” Byleth said proudly.

“Aren’t you a little young for that?”

She shook her head. “The wyvern master, Cyrus, he says I’ve got a gift with them.”

“Is that right?” Jeralt hummed. “Well, Seteth wouldn’t ever let you do anything he’d think could hurt you.”

That was unfortunately true.

“Anything else interesting happen while I was gone?”

“Oh, yeah—Lady Rhea’s teaching me to fight.”

Byleth could feel when her father stiffened in the saddle. “Fight with what?”

Perhaps it was a mistake to bring this up. Too late.

“My hands,” she told him cautiously. “Mostly it’s not _ real _fighting, just defense stuff, like how you’d get out of someone’s grip and knock them over.”

As she spoke, Jeralt slowly loosened from his tense position. “Are you any good?”

“The other kids seem to think so. They don’t push me around as much.”

“That was a problem?!”

Whoops. Byleth gave a small nod.

“Dammit,” Jeralt said. “I didn’t have any idea.” Half to himself: “The things I miss when I’m away.”

She tugged at the cloth of his sleeve. “You’re here, now.”

“For now,” Jeralt echoed, but he still didn’t sound happy.

They dismounted at the Entrance Hall, and Jeralt handed the reins off to Alois. “I have to give my report to the Archbishop. Stable Sara for me, will you?” 

“No problem, boss!” Alois grinned. “Want me to keep an eye on the little one, too?”

“I’m not _ that _ little,” Byleth harrumphed. 

Her father laughed. “No, you’re getting bigger by the day.”

Jeralt gave her one last hair ruffle and headed inside. Byleth decided to stick by Alois, more out of boredom than anything else. It helped that he let her hold Sara’s reins as they led the warhorses over to the monastery’s stables. 

Like Father, Seteth, Rhea, and Matron Liara, Alois was an essential and permanent part of her childhood. For one thing, he had simply always been there. But Alois had also grown up among Garreg Mach’s orphan pack, which created a kinship she didn’t have with the rest. Alois called Jeralt as good as his father, which meant in his mind, Byleth was something like a baby sister. (Byleth, meanwhile, graciously deigned to put up with such treatment). 

“I overheard you and Jeralt,” Alois said. “Good on you for solving that situation! Though I’m a bit sad my own advice didn’t work.”

Byleth resisted a snort. Alois was the only adult she’d willingly told, and he’d confessed that he hadn’t been the most popular of his bunch, either.

“But you know what I did to change that? I became the funny one,” Alois had told her, “I told jokes! I made ‘em laugh! Have you ever tried that?”

She’d stared flatly at him in response. Byleth rather thought that they were laughing _ at _ Alois instead of _ with _ him. 

Now, Alois was shaking his head in wonder. “Still, to be taught by the Archbishop—what an honor!”

_ If it’s such an honor, _ Byleth thought, _ then why did Father react like that? _

They handed the horses off to the stableboys and parted ways: Alois to his wife’s townhouse in the village and Byleth to her father’s quarters.

“Be sure and tell Captain Jeralt to stop by tonight!” Alois shouted, “Marie’s making stew!”

It was an old habit of theirs. Whenever the knights returned from a long mission, Jeralt and Byleth would go over to Alois and Marie’s home to have dinner. They’d been doing it for forever, as far as Byleth’s memory was concerned. Her starving stomach rumbled at the thought of Marie’s beef stew. There would probably be hot fresh bread, too, with butter. Mm.

Byleth climbed the stairs up to the captain’s quarters with food on the brain, licking her lips at the prospect of a nice meal without any pushy Academy students to elbow her out of line. Pricks. 

No one answered when she knocked on the door, and the room was dark was she opened it. Father was still with Lady Rhea, then. Byleth pushed the curtains open to let the evening’s dying light in and lit the handful of candles in the room. Then, she pulled off her boots and settled down on the bed to wait. 

Jeralt stumbled in some fifteen minutes later, looking as weary as a dead man. Some people grew energized from the Archbishop’s presence, as though her very gaze could fortify you, but Byleth’s father only seemed exhausted after speaking with her. She wondered why that was.

Byleth (at least, towards her father) was a helpful child. She helped tug off gauntlets, unbuckle pauldrons, and then set his sword and belt upright by the doorframe. 

“What did they have you doing?” she asked.

“Disposing of some Western Church fanatics.”

“Why?” She’d asked Seteth this question already, yes, but now she wanted her father’s response.

Jeralt grunted and moved to sit in his chair. “They disagree with a lot of Central Church politics. They envy its power and influence. And they want Rhea dead.”

Her father was the only person Byleth knew who didn’t refer to the Archbishop with some form of title.

Her brow wrinkled. “So they _ are _ evil?”

Jeralt let out a bark of a laugh. “Shit, kid, I don’t know. Theological morality was never one of my strong suits.” A pause. “Don’t repeat what I just said.”

Byleth tilted her head. “Shit?”

“That, but also—yeah, that. Anyway, especially not in front of Seteth or Rhea, if you want your good old dad to keep his head.”

“I’ve heard it before,” Byleth pointed out. The older aerie assistants used some very creative language when wyverns got snappy. 

“Good, you can blame them, then.” The smile slipped from his face. “Byleth?”

“Hmm?”

Carefully. “What do you think of Rhea?”

Byleth stopped to think about it; there was no easy answer. It was a funny feeling she could picture in her mind: a colorful striped mug that had fallen off the table and shattered to bits. You looked at the mug, and felt sad because you loved it, but also knew that it could never work as it once had. Rhea was the same.

But children find difficulty in communicating the emotions they process, and Byleth knew that Rhea being a broken mug would make no sense to anyone else. So she defaulted to what every child does when they cannot explain something in words.

She shrugged.

But that didn’t satisfy Jeralt.

He said, in an even more hesitant tone, “Do you ever feel...afraid of her?”

“No,” Byleth said, startled but truthful. She felt uncomfortable, regretful even, but never afraid.

Lady Rhea would never harm her.

Her firmness seemed to reassure him of something, and Jeralt sat back with a long sigh.

Byleth didn’t bother asking why he was acting like this. He could be strange when it came to Rhea. And while Jeralt had never lied to her, that didn’t stop him from refusing to answer certain questions.

But then Father said, so quietly she almost didn’t hear, “Sometimes, I wonder if I’ve done the right thing, having you here.”

Byleth blinked. “What?”

Jeralt coughed. “Nothing. Your father’s being silly. What’s done is done.” Then: “Your birthday’s coming up soon, isn’t it?”

“In half a month.” She preened, confusion already forgotten.

“Already nine years old, huh.” He looked away. “Rhea’s assigned me a mission, and I might not be back in time for it.”

“Oh.” The wind in her sails drooped to nonexistence. 

“Which is why I already got you your present.” He drew a brown package out of his coat and Byleth immediately lunged for it. “Easy, easy. You can open it over at Alois’s; it’s only fair since he helped me pick it out.”

At that declaration, Byleth half-dragged her father out to the village, to his laughter. 

And Alois had been right: there was hot stew and bread, but as a surprise, there was also a little chocolate cake with _ Happy Birthday Byleth _ written in syrupy script. It was a small, quiet way for a soon-to-be-nine year-old to spend their future birthday, but Byleth couldn’t think of a better way. 

After everyone was full on food and cake and wine (or milk, in Byleth’s case), she finally received her chance to rip the brown paper packaging open. Purple-blue was the first thing to register, and then a black-and-gold hilt.

“You got me a dagger?” she asked in a disbelieving tone, drawing the blade out of its colorful sheath with a soft _ snick _. 

“I did,” Jeralt agreed. “You’ll have to learn how to use it, mind you.”

Byleth nodded, twisting the dagger this way and that to flicker rays of firelight off its steel. 

“And no funny business, either, or it’s gone. This is a responsibility, not a toy.”

She kept nodding to the point that she thought her head might snap off her neck. Her very own dagger. _ Hers. _

“And that’s a nice cover with it, right?” Alois threw in. “It reminded me of your hair.”

Byleth thought the sheath’s purplish color was quite a few shades brighter than her own dull blue, but you know what they say: it’s the thought that counts. 

Something occurred to her, and Byleth tilted her head. “If you want me to learn how to defend myself, wouldn’t a weapon like a bow or sword or stave be better?” 

Jeralt snorted. “With as little as you are, that length practically _ is _ a sword.” Then, he sobered. “You’ve never been to Faerghus, but you know it’s where I came from, right?”

She nodded.

“Well, up north, giving someone a dagger—it means something. It’s, ah, an encouragement, I guess you’d say. A key to opening up your future.”

She glanced down at the dagger, then back up at him.

Jeralt sighed. “What I’m trying to say, kid, is that you’ve got choices. Even if you don’t realize it yet. And when you _ do _ realize it, then I’m there for you. Every step of the way.”

It wouldn’t be until years later that Byleth finally understand exactly what her father was trying to tell her. 

iii. byleth learns a secret

Byleth’s birthday was just two weeks ago, and she was still flying high off that fact. In addition to her father and Alois’s present, she’d now gotten gifts from everyone else. Rhea had given her black leather gloves, soft and supple, and Byleth had not taken them off since putting them on. Seteth’s idea of a birthday gift was letting her taste coffee for the first time; despite the initial bitter taste, she pestered him for more every time they took tea. 

But it was Cyrus’s gift that may have been her favourite: a little wooden wyvern with splayed wings and a long tail curled around its body. She carried it around in her pocket wherever she went, along with the dagger and gloves. 

That day in the aerie, she was as placid as a satisfied cat, humming as she swept up old straw and manure. Cyrus was in Nylah’s stall, working her back scales over with a salve. Their scales were one of the most important parts of wyvern care, especially where they were rubbed raw by the saddle and its straps. 

Throughout the entire process, Nylah made rumbling noises in her throat and turned her head around to watch as if to insure that Cyrus did a proper job. It humored Byleth to no end that Nylah was as fussy as her owner.

“Come here, Byleth,” Cyrus suddenly said as he finished up tightening the salve’s lid back on. 

She set the broom aside and hopped over to the stall. Byleth was a lot more careful around the other wyverns, but Nylah was a special case. The female wyvern had not been aggressive or snappy towards her even once, a record that was only matched by Kiko. 

“Here,” he guided Byleth’s hand to the soft underskin of Nylah’s neck, “give her a good scratch.”

Byleth obliged, and snickered when Nylah’s eyes rolled back and her back leg began thumping on the ground. “She’s like a dog!”

Cyrus nodded in agreement. “Noble beasts as they are, every wyvern has a special spot that can’t resist scritches. Our Nylah’s no exception.”

After the brief wyvern petting break, they returned to work. As Byleth dragged the broom across the stone floor, she asked, “How come you know so much about wyverns, Cyrus?” 

He shrugged. “I’ve spent nearly all my life with them.”

“But old Jo,” (a former monastery orphan that was now an aged aerie assistant) “he’s older than you and been working here forever, and _ he’s _ nowhere _ near _ as good as you.” (Much to old Jo’s dismay.)

“I s’pose I had help along the way, too,” Cyrus said vaguely, to Byleth’s unsatisfied and flat stare. 

The man sighed and glanced around the aerie, but there was no one there but him and Byleth. “Look, it’s sort of...a family secret.”

That only made Byleth stare all the harder, and he realized it.

“I should have known better than to bring up secrets around a kid,” Cyrus groaned. “Fine, fine: can you keep a secret?”

“Of course I can,” she said. Byleth wasn’t lying. She didn’t have many secrets, but the ones she did were important ones. Secrets like her father not believing in the Goddess, anymore, or not liking Lady Rhea when everyone else worshipped her. She kept them buried deep down to the point that _ she _hardly even knew they were there. 

“Alright. Do you know anything about Almyra?” 

She _ did _ know things, mostly because the few books about them were some of the most interesting in the library. It was a shame they were so short and far between. “They’re barbarians, pirates...they like to invade the Alliance a lot and raid there.”

Cyrus’s face was stone. “And?”

_ Oh. _ “They all ride wyverns! Or a lot do, anyway. It’s _ culturally significant _ for them.” Byleth was pretty sure that was just fancy book words for being important.

“Yes,” he agreed, “It is.”

“But what’s that got to do with you?”

“Sometimes,” Cyrus said calmly, “Almyrans come over the border. Sometimes, it’s to raid, sometimes to flee the current regime. Whatever the reason, sometimes they come over and they stay.” A pause. “My mother was one of those people.”

“Your mother was _ Almyran? _” 

“She was a wyvern rider, but also a medic. Almyra doesn’t have many white magic priests or monks, since there’s no Church of Seiros. That means it’s important to have someone around who can clean, dress, and stitch up wounds.” He took a deep breath. “She came over in a raiding party, but they were surprised by a squad of snipers and nearly all shot down. My mother barely made it out, but she couldn’t go back home, either—you’re supposed to fight until the last man. So, she flew deeper into Fódlan, and never left.”

“What happened, then?”

Cyrus shrugged. “The exciting part of the story is over, sadly. She met my father, and they lived on the outskirts of an Alliance village and had me. My mother raised me on stories of her people and their wyverns, so I set out to find somewhere that I could always work with them,” he patted the aerie’s stone walls, “and I succeeded.”

Byleth thought this over. Then, she asked, “Why is it a bad thing that your mother’s Almyran?”

Cyrus gave her a sad smile. “Weren’t you paying attention?”

“But _ you _ were born here, and anyway, your mother isn’t hurting anyone now! It _ shouldn’t _ matter.”

“Maybe,” Cyrus said, “But I don’t think old Jo would think the way you do. He’d use it as a way to oust me, because I’m half an untrustworthy Almyra, and he’s a devout follower of the Goddess.”

Byleth snorted. “I don’t think Jo’s set foot in the chapel once, when he wasn’t forced.”

“But he’s from generations and generations of Fódlaners,” Cyrus pointed out gently, “and the Goddess does not look upon outsiders as her children.”

Deep down, down so far there’s nothing but dark, Byleth put the things that she didn’t want to know, the secrets she needed to keep. And that dark, deep hole in her chest whispered something, another secret that she’ll have to hide.

_ Then the Goddess is wrong. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rhea: *tries her best*  
rhea: *still is creepy*


	3. wherein byleth makes mischief and friends

3.

i. in which byleth wages war

In Fódlan, if a child is lucky, they do not experience war until they are grown. If the child is even luckier, they never have to experience it at all. 

Byleth was unfortunate enough to be born on Garreg Mach’s battlefield, but it was a battlefield unknown to many. Two sides embroiled in a bitter rivalry: the Officer’s Academy students versus the monastery’s children. It was an enmity that, in all likelihood, had originated at the dawn of time and showed no sign of stopping now. 

_ Oh_, there were _ some _ students who weren’t absolutely terrible, whose attitudes towards the orphans approximated the same patronizing sympathy they had in throwing a bit of old fish to the stray cats. _ Those _ ones were just annoying.

But they weren’t the worst. 

The worst were the snotty, spoiled brats that strolled around like they owned the place—owned _ them. _

“Take this shirt, I need it ironed.”

“Saddle my horse for me and bring it out.”

“Get me a new lance, this one’s snapped.”

On and on they went, with commands overflowing out of their sneering mouths. All the monastery kids, from orphans to apprentices and priests-in-training, were subject to their whims. Byleth, herself, rankled over being ordered about, but it was mealtime that was the greatest offense. Those pricks would show up late and elbow commoner kids out of line. 

It was completely unforgivable...if only because Byleth had lost out on her favorite choclate pudding one too many times.

Something had to be done.

Once again, it was Sam who pushed things over the edge.

Late on a weekday night, he came into the orphans’ communal room, yanking the door open so hard it ricocheted off the wall with a loud _ bang! _

Many pairs of sleepy, annoyed eyes opened to glare at him.

“Keep it down, would’ya?” Charla snapped, drawing her blanket tighter around her.

Sam didn’t pay her any attention. “I can’t _ believe _ what that _ son of a donkey _ did!”

_Here we go. _ Byleth set her book down to listen in on the commotion. It’d been a boring read, anyway.

“Didn’t you get assigned extra dish duty because you played hooky on your chores?” Charla asked, uncaring. “Go cry about it somewhere else.”

Sam’s left eye twitched. “I wasn’t playing hooky! That bastard Rowe tried to make me saddle his horse for him _ again, _ but I walked off. A couple hours later, I’m grabbed by the guards since Rowe’s apparently fallen off his horse because _ someone _saddled it wrong. And guess who he blamed for that?!”

Byleth tilted her head. “So he lied?”

“Of course Rowe lied!” he scowled. “But it’s his word over mine, and _of course_ they believe him! So I’m stuck with the washing for hours and hours for the crime of ‘trying to harm my betters’!” Sam held up his red, cracked hands. “It’s not fair; I didn’t do a bloody thing!”

Not without sympathy, Charla said, "You shouldn't have antagonized him like that."

“So I’m just supposed to roll over and do whatever he says? Don’t you have any pride?”

“No,” Charla answered, “I have common sense. Rowe’s father is a _ Count,_ Sam. Who’s your father, again?”

Sam hung his head, and the room’s occupants slipped into dejection as a group of orphaned children comprehended how truly powerless they were in the world. 

But then, Byleth said, “I don’t think we should let them get away with it, either.”

Sam’s head shot up and Charla eyed her warily.

“Why, Dull Eyes,” Sam’s eyes gleamed, despondency quickly evaporating, “it sounds like you’ve already got a plan.”

“It’s not really a plan,” Byleth said carefully. “More of an idea. _ They _ can get us into trouble easy...but what if we get _ them _ into trouble?”

“And how do you think we’re gonna do that?” Charla asked.

“We know where they sleep,” Byleth said, a simple and chilling statement.

“Yeah, but _ we _ aren’t allowed in the student dorms, remember?”

“So we sneak in,” Sam shrugged.

“With _ what?” _

The pieces in Byleth’s mind were already drifting together.

“If I tell Seteth that I heard some Blue Lions boys bragging about hiding contraband,” Byleth said slowly, “he’d probably arrange for a dorm check, right?”

“Right,” Sam agreed.

“Wait a second,” Charla said, “If we’re planting them with contraband, that means that _ we _ have to get contraband.” 

This was a good point. What even _ was _ the contraband that Academy students were disallowed? 

_ “Alcohol,” _ they said in unison.

“Okay, sure, but where are we gonna get that stuff? Taverns don’t sell it cheap, and if we try stealing it from the kitchens, we’re not gonna get punished, we’re gonna get _ killed.” _ Charla pointed out. 

This was also true, and took some thinking.

“Isn’t the Rite of Rebirth coming up next week?” Someone chimed in.

Byleth nodded. “There’ll be a big feast for all the visiting nobles that night.”

“And where there’s visiting nobles, there’s half-empty bottles of wine left on the table,” Sam said.

“So, if we get clean-up duty that night—” Charla trailed off.

“—there’s plenty of bottles we can grab.” Sam finished.

Matron Liara was shocked to find her wayward wards so eager to volunteer in chore duties that night.

“Why wouldn’t you want to enjoy the feast-time with everyone else?” she asked, suspicious. 

Byleth blinked at her with wide blue eyes. “Since it’s a day for the Goddess, we thought we should do charitable works in her name.”

The suspicion did not dissipate; Liara knew that Byleth rarely displayed any interest at all in the Goddess, and wiping down dining tables hardly counted as ‘charitable works’. But the kitchen staff were desperate for free labor, and Matron Liara also knew that she would much enjoy having the brats out of her hair for a night, so she gave her agreement. 

And so began the first hard part of the plan: obtaining the alcohol. The night went as they all expected, much revelry and drinking and merriment. Finally, at eleven or so, things began to wind down and the nobles stumbled out of the dining hall and away to their rooms. The flock of orphan vultures then descended on the remains. Some kids were distracted by the scraps of sweet-meats and crumbs of cakes and mince-pies, but Byleth, Charla, Sam, and a few others kept to their mission and their mission was _ bottles. _

Sam’s first instinct was to just grab one and shove it down his pants, to which Charla began hissing at him:

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Sam snapped back, eyes on the yawning adult watching over things at the back of the room.

“There’s no cork in it—you think Seteth’s not gonna realize something’s odd about a buncha bottles with no corks?”

“Oh, right.”

To which a separate hunt for corks began. 

It ought to have been fairly obvious to the kitchen staff that a number of children were trying (and mostly failing) to hide numerous bottles of wine in or on their persons, pants, and coats. But they were tired, and wanted nothing more than the dishes washed and put away so they could get to bed. Exhaustion promotes oversight. And thus, the first part of the mission succeeded.

They hid the bottles in Byleth’s room under a floorboard at the far side by the window, confident that no one would find them there. (And if someone did, only Byleth would take the blame.)

Now, came planning the second hard part: actually getting the bottles into Rowe’s room.

“Alright, who’s the sneakiest of us?” Sam demanded at another late-night room meeting, after the Rite of Rebirth.

“It’s definitely not you,” Charla muttered.

Everyone’s gazes drifted around the areas surrounding Byleth without managing to actually look at her. She sighed.

“Ole Dull Eyes is like a ghost, just fades out completely.”

“She snuck up on those wyverns…”

“Aw, By’s got this in the bag.”

Well, Byleth supposed, she _ was _the one to bring up this whole plan to begin with.

Didn’t mean being volunteered alone for the most dangerous bit of job wasn’t annoying, though.

The most important detail was picking the right _ time _ to do the planting. If another student saw Byleth wandering about or opening the door to Rowe’s room, then it was all over. They needed a time where every student was out of the dorms, including Rowe.

“Do you think he locks his door?” Charla asked.

“Hope not,” Byleth said. This was another obstacle they hadn’t considered. “I don’t know how to pick locks.”

“Most of them don’t, normally,” Sam said.

“Pray that Rowe doesn’t,” Charla advised. 

The day they decided on came far too fast for Byleth’s liking. In a rare show of solidarity, all the orphans waited with her, sitting around a clock, until the time to strike came.

“One o’clock is the perfect time,” Charla reminded her again. “Lions are out riding, Eagles are at the training grounds, and the Deer have a lecture.”

Byleth nodded. This wasn’t her feeling anxious. It wasn’t. Byleth didn’t ever get anxious.

Right?

The _ tick-tocks _ of the clock turned into moving lumps in her stomach. But then the big hand landed over the 12, the little hand now pointing at 1. 

Sam clapped her hard on the shoulder. “Show time, Dull Eyes.”

Somehow it became incredibly difficult to walk casually across the monastery with a knapsack of alcohol strapped around her shoulder.

_ Pretend you’re going to the sauna, _ she ordered herself. _ You’re just heading to the sauna. That's all._

And she did, until Byleth cut a wide left turn and speedily jogged to the dorms, inwardly cursing the _ clinking _ of the bottles in her knapsack. But there was nobody else standing around and Byleth wasn’t about to lose this chance. It did feel odd, walking up the stairs to the second floor of the student dorms, as she’d never had reason to be inside it before.

Byleth’s luck held; the hallway was empty when she slipped inside.

They’d gotten his room location from an older priest-in-training who knew Rowe...and in knowing him held a very large grudge. 

_ This one here, I think. _

She grasped the doorknob, and let out a _ whoosh _ of breath when it turned easily. Not locked after all.

Byleth prepared to open the door—and froze, because someone else was opening theirs down the hall. 

The student sneezed as he stepped out, then narrowed his eyes at Byleth, who was flattening herself against the wall.

“Hey—what do you think you’re doing there?”

“Collecting the linens for cleaning,” she said, thankful that her tone stayed as flat as it always had.

The student (one of the Black Eagles, maybe?) gave her a disbelieving look, then noticed whose door she was standing by. 

“Oh, so you’re pranking Terrance Rowe?” he asked breezily. “In that case, I didn’t see a thing.”

And he walked down the hall and left her there.

Byleth reflected that perhaps the Goddess was, indeed, watching out for her. 

She yanked open the door and closed it behind her, mindful that there might be more stragglers about. _ Place to hide this, place to hide this. _ Byleth settled on the sock drawer, stuffing bottle after bottle in and only stepped away when her bag was empty. Objective completed. 

Her escape out of the dorm was quick and unnoteworthy, and Byleth calmly walked over to the group of children conspicuously hiding in the bushes. 

“Did you do it?”

“I did,” Byleth said, a tad smug.

“We saw that boy come out after you went in, we thought you were _ done for!” _

“But I wasn’t,” she said, even more smug.

Now, to find Seteth.

“Hello, Byleth,” Seteth said when she arrived at his office doorway. “We’ve received news from your father; they’re due back from their mission sometime early next week.”

That was good to hear, but also not why she came.

“You told me that if I ever saw or heard something bad going on with the students, I should come see you, right?” Byleth asked.

Seteth stiffened, then turned from his work, giving the girl his full attention. “Yes, I did, and I stand by that statement.”

“Well,” Byleth chose her words with care, “Recently, some Blue Lions boys...they act like the rules don’t apply to them because they’re nobility, and they’ve been bothering me and the other kids.”

“I see,” Seteth said darkly. “And what are these boys’ names?”

Byleth was almost irritated. She had gone to so much trouble to ensure that Rowe would end up in hot water, and here Seteth was, already promising her a boiling caldron before she even lied about what they had done!

“I know one’s Rowe,” Byleth said, “I don’t know about the others. But today, at breakfast...they were talking about getting together and drinking over their free-day, since Rowe had wine at his dorm. Students aren’t allowed alcohol at the Academy, are they, Seteth?”

“They are _ not_,” Seteth emphasized. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention.” A pause. “Terrance Rowe of Blue Lions, was it?”

Byleth restrained a small smile. _ Hook, line, and sinker. _ “Uh-huh.”

“I suppose it _ has _been too long since we’ve performed a dorm check. If you’ll excuse me.”

Seteth swept past her, and this time Byleth didn’t bother repressing her smile.

The entire populations of both the Academy and monastery heard about the chewing out Rowe got from Seteth. Rumors held that he had to write a four-foot long essay on the Goddess’s virtue of humility _ and _ muck the stables for a month straight. Sam, Charla, and Byleth very much appreciated the fruits of their labor, especially when they could visit the stables and watch Rowe complain about the horse shit soaking the hem of his trousers. 

Byleth learned a valuable lesson that day. Sometimes, people did bad things and it seemed like they couldn’t ever get punished for them. But that wasn’t true. You _ could _ get them in the end.

You just had to find your way around the rules. 

  
  


ii. in which byleth makes a friend

When bored, the village market was an entertaining place to wander, even if you were penniless. But at some point in Byleth’s youth, a stranger approached her with an apple and asked her to follow him out back. Byleth took the apple—it was red and shiny—and then kicked the man between the legs and darted off. In between bites of the apple, she told Seteth the whole tale, and unsurprisingly, he had a fit. He ordered Byleth not to go into the village alone (she ignored that). Then, he went on a long and bizarre lecture on bad men that wanted children (_no, he wouldn’t tell her what for)_. Byleth was to avoid these bad men at any cost, and run and find an adult she trusted if she thought she was in danger. 

Years later, Byleth reflected back on this conversation, because she never thought it would apply to Seteth, himself. 

“But where are we _ going?” _ she asked yet again.

“I’ll explain when we get there,” Seteth said distractedly, glancing about.

Normally, Byleth would be all for a secret adventure, but it was late in the night, the streets frozen with snow and ice, and she wanted nothing more than sleep.

“I didn’t even know you lived in the village,” Byleth stifled a yawn.

“There’s a reason for it,” Seteth looked behind (quite obviously) to check if there was anyone watching them. “Come, this way.”

Seteth disappeared around a shadowy turn and Byleth, muttering under her breath as she almost slipped on a patch of ice, followed. Maybe this wasn’t Seteth at all. Maybe a demon had clawed his face off and was wearing it to trick her. 

“Byleth?”

But no, that impatient and snappishly nervous tone was pure Seteth.

“Are we almost there?” Byleth asked.

“Yes. It’s this door here.” He rapped his knuckles several times, and Byleth noted an odd rhythm to the _ knocks_.

A small, high voice: “Brother, is that you?”

“Yes, Flayn, that’s why I knocked in the code.” Seteth said and Byleth had to blink in shock because she’d never heard Seteth sound so patient or gentle. “I’ve brought her, like you asked.”

“Oh!”

A long pause.

“Flayn, the door cannot be opened until you unlock it on your side.”

Another _“oh!”_ but this one was much more embarrassed. The door rattled with the sound of metal locks clanging, and then swung open.

_ Green, _was Byleth’s first reaction and then, _ she’s not much older than me. _

“You never said you had a kid.” 

Seteth nudged her over the threshold, still obsessively checking behind them. “I—don’t. This is my younger sister, Flayn. Flayn, this is Byleth.”

As Seteth shut the door and relocked it behind them, the two girls took a long moment to unabashedly examine the other. Flayn’s perfectly coiffed curls, her spotless little hands, and her puffy white dress made her look, well, _ noble. _ For the first time, Byleth wondered, was _ Seteth _ a noble?

She knew she had to be quite a contrast to Flayn, with ratty hair, chipped fingernails, and muddied boots. Annoyance burned in Byleth’s cheeks as she looked down and dragged her boots on the entry mat. Why had this posh girl even wanted to see her, anyway? 

But then soft hands grasped hers and lifted them up.

“It’s ever so nice to finally meet you,” Flayn beamed. “My brother has told me so much about you, I feel as though I know you already.”

Byleth blinked as several things occurred to her:

  1. Seteth talked about her. Apparently often.
  2. Seteth had never mentioned Flayn _once_ to her.
  3. Flayn’s smile was so blinding it soon drove out all other thoughts in her head.

Byleth scrabbled for a response and came up empty, but luckily, the other girl kept going. 

“I am sure we will be the closest of friends,” Flayn assured her. “It has been so long since I’ve had the companionship of another girl—but I’m sure that is odd to you. You must have many friends.”

Actually, Byleth didn’t really have any, but she wasn’t about to correct her. “Why aren’t you at the monastery, then? Plenty of noble girls either visit or attend the Academy.”

Flayn’s sparkling smile chilled. “My _ dear brother _believes that it is too dangerous for me to be seen in public. But enough on that—come in, come in! You look frozen! Sit here in front of the fire.”

Byleth hopped from leg to leg, tugging off her boots and leaving them by the door. She half-collapsed on the fluffy green rug in front of the fireplace and was grateful for the wool blanket Flayn draped over her limp body. 

A few feet away, Seteth hovered anxiously. “Is there anything you need, Flayn? A cup of tea, or—”

“No, Brother. I simply want to chat with my new friend. Girl to girl,” she added sweetly when Seteth did not begin to move. 

“Oh, I—yes, I see. Well,” he rallied, “I shall be in my study if you need anything.”

With that, Seteth retreated. Byleth looked at Flayn with open awe; that was masterful handling, indeed.

Flayn gave Byleth another smile, but this one was far more devious. “_Would _ you like a cup of tea? We have cocoa, too.”

The prospect of liquid sugar and chocolate reanimated Byleth enough to sit up and request a cup. She kept the girl company in the kitchen while the water heated. Flayn asked many questions about Garreg Mach and Byleth’s daily life there. She answered them as best she could and threw in a few anecdotes about wyvern-care. 

As they sipped their drinks, Byleth considered that she had plenty of questions to ask Flayn, too: “Where did you come from?”, “How old are you?”, “Is Seteth really your brother?”, and so on. 

But just like with her father, Byleth knew that even if she asked her questions, she wouldn’t get a proper answer. 

Still, she couldn’t help but ask, “Why does Seteth think it’s dangerous for you to be in public?”

Flayn leaned back, somberly considerate, an image slightly ruined by her chocolate mustache. “Our bloodline...it is an ancient one and there are some who would seek to abuse it.”

Byleth frowned. “Are you talking about Crests?” 

“Yes, and no.” Flayn set her mug down and fiddled with the hem of her dress. “It is complicated. Brother and I are different from other Crest-holders. I’m sure you are familiar with the feeling.”

Byleth’s breath stilled. She tightened her grip on her own mug. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. _ I _don’t have a Crest. I’m just like every other kid at the monastery that hangs around.”

“Yes, of course,” Flayn reassured her, “I only meant that being the knight-captain’s daughter may distance you from your peers.”

But Flayn hadn’t meant that at all. She was lying, and they both knew it.

With an ease of practice, Byleth put it out of her mind. “I don’t mind it all that much, being distant, I mean.” Hesitantly. “It might be nice to have a friend, though.”

The other girl brightened immediately. “Yes, I-I think that, too!”

And it was settled.

Occasionally, Seteth brought her for visits, but it was usually Byleth who took the initiative to wander into the village, down the right street to the right door, and then knock in the code (the knocking she especially enjoyed; it made her feel like a proper spy). If someone had told her that Seteth’s house would become another safe haven to her, Byleth would have—well, maybe not have laughed, but certainly looked at them incredulously. 

But that was what it _ did _ become. Whenever Byleth needed a break from the monastery, she ambled down to Flayn’s door. When she had questions she didn’t want to ask Matron Liara or Seteth, Byleth went to Flayn. And when she actually did manage to catch a fish at the monastery’s pond, she brought it over for dinner for both of them (_after_ one of the monastery cooks had seared and fried it. Liking Flayn didn't mean you had to trust her cooking). 

It _ was _ nice, Byleth realized, to have a friend. This was probably why people went out of their way to make them. 

iii. in which byleth haunts graves

Every year, he took her to lay down flowers, without fail. They’d kneel on the ground and pray (and somehow Byleth knew it wasn't to any Goddess). Then, they’d get up, dust off their clothes, and leave. Sometimes, Byleth went without her father. She’d look at all the names, study dates near and far. She’d sit in front of _ Karliah Eisner _ and run her fingers over engraved numbers and letters.

_ Beloved wife, friend, and mother. _

Byleth wondered how they loved her. She wondered if _ Byleth _ loved her. Could this empty, hollow feeling even be quantified as love?

There were no paintings or drawings of Karliah, at least none she could find. If Byleth asked, all anyone told her was, “Look in the mirror.” So she spent hours in front of the glass, pulling at her cheeks and peering into her own irises as though that could somehow pull the image of her mother out. Still, Byleth never felt fully satisfied. 

She wasn’t satisfied sitting in front of her grave, either, but Byleth didn’t know what else to do. Lady Rhea always broke into tears at the topic of her mother (or just mothers in general) and Father turned stony-faced and stiff-tongued at the mere mention of her. The only person who was easy with his words was Alois, but maybe that was because he’d never truly been close with Karliah. 

Seteth had never even met her.

With Father and Alois away on mission, the only thing she had left was the grave. And there she sat, as if the body buried underneath her could raise up some emotion or memory that Byleth ought to already have. But there wasn’t anything. 

Byleth still came, though. She sat, until the sun dove under the horizon and the chill winds drove her away. Until a stray pup trotted up and licked her knee, jogging her from her thoughts.

Until Seteth lifted her from the grass and carried her back to her bed.

Byleth’s eyes twitched open to dark skies and her minder’s somber face. She didn’t even remember falling asleep.

“It is only natural to miss her, you know,” Seteth said, low and hushed. “I still struggle with the loss of my own mother. But I hope you know that there are people around you that share your experiences, and that you can always relate your feelings and troubles with them.”

Byleth knew. She grew up in a group of orphans, after all. Some sobbed names into their pillows every night while others built up stone walls of distance and apathy. The individual child’s reaction was different, but the pain was all the same.

Except Byleth.

Because Seteth didn’t understand. Byleth didn’t go to her mother’s grave to mourn or memorialize her. She went because she ought to. Because Byleth _ should _ cry into her pillow at night, or snap and snarl, or do _ something… _ She ought to feel sad over the fact that she would never know her mother. She ought to weep over never seeing her face. Byleth ought to _ feel something,_ something that wasn’t dull, unsatisfied curiosity. 

And yet, _ every time,_ there wasn’t anything at all. And every time, over and over, Byleth realized that there was something utterly, fundamentally, and terribly wrong with her.

Seteth was still waiting for her response, but she had none. Instead, Byleth turned her face away and wished for sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm currently stuck at the point where i want to expand the cast, but know i also need to pace myself through byleth's childhood. trust me, tho, familiar faces will be popping up soon ;)


End file.
